Silence reigned in the aftermath of the Rating Game.
The digital arena slowly unraveled around them, the synthetic school grounds evaporating into sparks of light. Rias stood still, staring at the unconscious body of Riser Phenex. His once-regal uniform was in tatters, and the golden flames of his family line flickered weakly around his wounded frame.
But the real fire—the alien presence that had hijacked his body—was gone. Or at least dormant.
Issei leaned against a shattered pillar, barely able to stand. His gauntlet retracted with a hiss, revealing bruised and bloodied arms. He turned to Rias, forcing a grin through the pain.
"That guy… wasn't normal."
"No," Rias replied quietly. "He wasn't."
Riser had always been arrogant. But this—this was something far more sinister. Something had worn him like a coat of flesh.
Azazel, Governor-General of the Fallen Angels, arrived moments later through a personal transportation spell. His trench coat flared behind him as he surveyed the scene, golden eyes narrowing.
"So it finally broke through," he muttered, kneeling beside Riser's form. He placed two fingers against the heir's forehead. "Hmph. His spiritual signature is fractured—no, worse. Something latched onto his mind and burned through his soul like a parasite."
"Is it Amon right?" Rias asked, voice cold and sharp.
Azazel didn't answer right away.
Instead, he let out a sigh, stood, and glanced toward the sky.
"Yeah. It's him."
Issei stepped forward. "Then we beat him, right? He's gone?"
Azazel's face hardened. "No. You didn't beat him. You disrupted his link. There's a difference."
He turned to Rias, face solemn.
"Amon isn't a devil, angel, or fallen. He's… something else. You could call him a god, but that'd be flattering. A mistake, really."
He pulled out a device—a spinning orb with concentric rings—and tossed it into the air. It pulsed with golden light, forming a dome over Riser's body.
"That'll suppress any lingering traces of Amon's essence. For now."
Kiba limped over. "How did he take over Riser?"
Azazel raised a brow. "He didn't. Not directly. Amon is subtle. He plants himself like a thought—like a story. You invite him in without realizing it. Riser must've been vulnerable—pride, ambition, ego… perfect kindling."
Akeno crossed her arms. "Why now? Why during the game?"
Rias frowned. "Because of me."
Everyone looked to her.
"It was the perfect chance," Rias continued. "We were focused on the match. On winning. We never noticed something was wrong with Riser because—" she clenched her fists "—he made sure we wouldn't."
Azazel nodded. "Exactly. Amon is a master of perception. He doesn't just manipulate people. He manipulates the story around them."
He looked toward the hovering medical team now approaching the field.
"Riser won't remember any of this. Not clearly. Maybe glimpses, nightmares. But nothing solid."
Rias knelt beside the boy who had once demanded her hand in marriage.
He looked broken.
And yet… peaceful.
Like the storm had passed.
But deep inside, she knew it was only beginning.
—
Back in the Occult Research Club room, the atmosphere was tense.
Rias sat behind her desk, the dim light casting shadows over her face. Her peerage sat nearby—Issei nursing a bandaged arm, Akeno preparing tea with slow, precise motions, Kiba quietly polishing his sword, and Koneko munching silently on a protein bar.
No one spoke for a long time.
Then Issei broke the silence.
"Rias… what's the plan?"
She looked at him, eyes firm.
"We prepare."
Kiba raised a brow. "For what?"
"For whatever comes next. Amon is after Issei. Azazel confirmed that. And he's already shown he can possess devils. Who's next? Sona? Me? Even one of you?"
Akeno looked down. "We're vulnerable. That much is clear."
Koneko's voice was soft. "So what do we do?"
Rias stood.
"We train. We reinforce our minds. Mental defenses. Wards. Azazel has agreed to help us reinforce our territory. I'm not letting that thing take another piece of my world."
Her resolve burned like a flame in the dark.
Issei felt his heart race. He was terrified. But he was also… ready.
"Amon," he whispered to himself, clenching his fist. "If you want me so badly—come get me."
—
Far away, in a hidden chamber beneath the Vatican's deepest vaults, a man in white robes knelt before a black stone altar. The chamber was filled with holy artifacts—but even they seemed dim in the presence of the whispering void that clung to the edges of the air.
"...So the Error stirs again," the man murmured.
Behind him, two exorcists stood in silence.
"Prepare the swords," he ordered. "And contact the Grigori. Tell them the Church wishes to speak."
For the first time in decades, the Three Factions would meet again—not in diplomacy, but in fear.
—
Inside a cocoon of flame, deep within the Phenex estate, Riser Phenex tossed in his bed.
He screamed.
His dreams were not his own.
He saw mirrors cracking, eyes watching from behind reflections. He walked through hallways where the walls whispered his name. At the center of it all—a man stood.
A man with a monocle.
With a cane.
And a grin that split reality.
"You handled it poorly," Amon said to the dream-Riser. "But I forgive you."
Riser fell to his knees. "Get out of my head!"
Amon laughed. "But this isn't your head anymore, is it?"
He leaned down, tapping Riser's chest.
"I've left you a gift. You'll find it when the time is right. For now, sleep. Let the fire grow."
With that, the dream shattered.
Riser awoke in cold sweat, eyes glowing faintly—just for a moment.
And far away, in a place not bound by time or space, Amon sat atop a broken throne of mirrors, tapping his cane against the floor.
"So many moving pieces," he murmured. "But it's all falling into place."
He smiled.
"The Red Dragon's fate is sealed."